Absolution
by Sister Rose
Summary: "The white hat doesn't really doesn't suit you, but I love the hair," Damien Moreau says.


**Absolution**

A tag for "The Big Bang Job." Spoilers for "The Big Bang Job"

**By Sister Rose**

Eliot braces his arms against the ceramic squares of the shower, leaning into the heat so it falls on his weary shoulders and soothes the muscles stretched in his afternoon workout. He replays his afternoon kata in his head, seeing the rough spots and making plans to smooth them out tomorrow. He rolls the shoulder that had been sticking, the one that needs to be stretched out more.

His one indulgence from the crew's first big job had been a bathroom the size he wanted in a house where no one knows he lives, with a shower of his own design and a water heater big enough to run a cruise ship. It's almost enough hot water to relax his aching body, and when it finally starts cooling, Eliot glops shampoo into his hands, rubbing and cleansing his scalp and hair – never clean enough. He rinses, ducking his head under the waterfall, applies conditioner, and rinses again, the percussion of the droplets on his head almost loud enough to drown out the accusing voice inside as he turns the water off.

"_Murderer_," the voice names him. "_Killer_."

The voice follows him as he towels roughly dry, dragging the nubs of cotton over his sun-hardened skin and through his wet rain of hair.

"_Betrayer_," the voice accuses. "_Defiler_. _Traitor_. _Failure_. _Not good enough_."

And the worst yet – "Eliot."

Except that voice isn't shrieking inside his head. It's nagging from the outside in a happy soprano. He acknowledges it without turning around. Obviously at least one person knows where he lives and has no problem with his high-tech security system.

"Parker," he says, finishing his hair before wrapping the white towel around his waist and knotting it. "Not dressed yet."

"I brought you a chai," she says, holding out the coffee shop cup. "It's hot. And not spilled. And I want to talk."

He thinks for a minute. So many landmines in any conversation with Parker, and he really doesn't want to mess this up, so he really doesn't want to talk. On the other hand, Parker's social skills have improved some, but "I want to talk" is a new leap of human interaction that should be rewarded.

He takes the cup. She smiles. He involuntarily smiles back then forces the scowl back onto his face. It's going to be hard enough to keep his distance without her being charming.

"Kitchen," he says, brown thumb jerking that direction. They cross the sand-colored tile and he offers her a tall coffee-colored bar stool – she would have stolen it anyway if he hadn't offered, he reasons.

Once she's settled, he seats himself, carefully conscious of keeping his legs together. Parker might have no inhibitions about showing herself, but he isn't ready for that level of intimacy with the team. Not like his old team – his unit. Back then, a dick was a dick was a dick, and everybody had one. This new mixed team takes some adjustment, and he isn't quite there yet and doesn't think he ever will be.

He lifts the cup and quizzes her with his eyes.

"Sophie told me guests should bring gifts," she says. "And Hardison said that was your favorite."

He lifts the corners of his lips. It's almost a smile. Of course she'd ask Hardison. She thinks he's the smartest man alive. Eliot thinks she's probably right, but he doesn't plan to indulge either one of them with that knowledge.

Encouraged, she breathes in and blurts out her question.

"Are you mad at me?"

His brows pucker as he barks, "no!"

"Then why ….. You seem different. Since the bomb thing. Like I make you mad and Hardison makes you mad and Sophie makes you mad and Nate makes you embarrassed."

He sighs. She's quick-witted herself – and way less oblivious than he had thought.

"It's not good to get too close to a teammate," he says. "If I don't keep the right distance, someone could get hurt."

She tips her head to the side as she thinks for a while. He sips his chai, the spice flavors sliding over his tongue, just the blend he likes with just a little cream, the way he only allows himself to have it once in a very great while.

"I take it back," she finally announces.

"What?"

"What I said. I take it back."

No one can exasperate him like Parker. Eliot gets up for and checks the freezer side of his industrial refrigerator. He paws through the frozen vegetables and snags the peas. He wraps them in a kitchen towel and gently places them on the knuckles of his right hand. He punishes himself more each day with his workouts, and the heavy bag isn't forgiving. No matter. The next phase of the fight against Damien Moreau won't be for sissies. Eliot's gotta be ready. He has to protect his crew.

He sits and looks at her face, at the hands undoubtedly busy below the counter practicing knots or flipping coins between her knuckles, staying in practice.

"What did you say that you're taking back?"

"When I asked what you'd done. I take it back."

Eliot thinks back to the park, to the accusing faces, the betrayed faces, the hurt faces – the guilt he felt as Hardison told the crew what he'd always known would be a sticking point, his involvement with Moreau. He remembers the sick feeling in his gut, and he feels it again, a dripping anxiety that numbs the bottom of his stomach while it makes him want to throw up.

He's not sure what she means by taking it back. He told her that if she asked him what unforgivable things he had done, he would tell her, and he meant it – means it. He will. He'd rather scoop his nuts off with a rusty grapefruit spoon, but he'll do it. After all the trust the team has put in him, he owes it back. And he'll tell the truth.

My God, he doesn't want to.

He looks in Parker's sweet face. She's damaged, sure, and she'll steal anything that stays put for five seconds or even anything that moves, but there's an innocence there that he doesn't want to – _defiler_, his inner voice points out – spoil. He wonders what she has been thinking. He thinks about her imagining the worst thing she can imagine – and he knows how very much worse his worst thing is.

"I'll tell you if you want to know," he finally growls, running his hand through his still-damp hair.

"I don't," Parker says. "I thought about it, and I don't want to know. I know you. I know if you don't want to talk about it, it shouldn't be talked about. I trust you. You're Eliot. Our Eliot. Whatever you've done, I don't care."

"Parker…" he interrupts, but he has no idea what he plans to say and the effort trickles off as she interrupts him with a kiss on the forehead, sweet benediction from innocence to sin.

"That's all. See you tomorrow," she says, skipping blithely out the front door, which, of course, sounds an alarm because she took the time to reset it after she entered but left the rest of his security to him to arrange.

He stands to turn the alarm off, and the towel slides to the ground. Little thief managed to undo the knot as she kissed him. He picks it up but doesn't bother to rewrap it, slaps his code into the alarm box and heads back to the bathroom.

Eliot wipes the towel across the condensation in the mirror and stares at his own battle-hardened eyes before picking up the electric shaver, rewrapping its cord around it and putting it back in its box and the box back in the linen closet on the top shelf.

From that shelf, he pulls a pair of scissors and stares at the man in the mirror some more. That man is a sinner, for sure. "_Traitor_," his voice offers. "_Killer." _But that man is forgiven. Eliot combs his hair straight then shears off two inches. Penance and absolution.

His workout tomorrow is also going to need to include some flexibility exercises. He was too stiff in the warehouse. He has to protect his crew.


End file.
